


Hubris

by MittenCrab



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Bipolar Anders, Blood and Gore, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Dragon Age II, Revolution, Rivalry, Tevinter Imperium, The Calling, slave rebellion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 00:18:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6633085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MittenCrab/pseuds/MittenCrab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Kirkwall in ashes, and rapidly losing control over Justice, Anders is unwillingly forced to join Hawke and his lover Fenris as they flee to the Tevinter Imperium. But as Fenris battles with the repercussions of leading a rebellion of his own, Hawke struggles with the indignity of being made secondary to a revolution, and Justice becomes increasingly preoccupied with Fenris, they each find themselves thrown into a world of obsession, defiance and sedition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hubris

 

There is a saying that the Dalish keep; _fire in the heart sends smoke to the head_ . Karl had told him that, once. He had never understood - not truly, not until the smoke of Kirkwall was filling his nose and clawing at his eyes and the haze of Justice was howling and _howling_ along with it behind his ribcage until he thought it just might wrench him apart. He understood too well now. Anders stared at the hastily assembled campfire, watched the tongues of flame lick and snarl and flare, and tried to forget the taste of ashes in his mouth.

 

Shivering and heavy with exhaustion, he closed his eyes and leaned his aching head against the palms of his hands until he saw smoke and stars. Justice was silent and restless, seething and coiling under his skin like static. He was so _tired_.

 

He had run before. So many times. Anders had run from the circle until his feet bled and run from the wardens until he forgot their names and run from himself until he couldn’t sleep. He was used to running. But this time, he was not alone, and each desperate inhalation tasted like drowning. They had fled from the blood-stained ashes of Kirkwall like vultures from a stinking cadaver. Later,when he wove it into a story, Varric would leave out the way that each of them had glanced back at the carcass of their once-home as it burned and felt crushed under the weight of the flesh they had ripped and picked and devoured from its bones. He would leave out the anguish in the corner of Hawke’s eyes. He would write over the way that Merrill’s hands shook as she clutched her staff until her knuckles went white He would forget the way his own words had burned to nothing as easily as the chantry walls - the poet rendered speechless. Literary artifice would make it look valiant; ‘the hero and his companions fled Kirkwall, left their home ablaze, and never looked back’. In truth, they had barely been able to look away. Now, miles from the City of Chains, Anders could still taste the brine-and-death tang of blood on his tongue and see the spiralling smoke behind his closed eyes.  

 

A little way from where he sat trying to swallow down the itch that scrabbled for purchase in his chest, Merrill flittered by the fire, tending to a pot billowing with a thick salty steam that was threatening to make his nausea even worse. Just out of sight, hushed voices debated feverishly in the dark. Hawke’s frantic murmuring; Fenris with his grumbled interjections; Isabela and Varric whispering animatedly; all of them strung-up on the vertigious after-shocks of adrenaline. Anders no longer knew or understood how long they had been talking. Ostensibly, leaving him to guard the fire and sit watch had been Hawke’s suggestion (‘Watch out for the nugs. They never look trustworthy.’). But it was not without the weighted pressure of Fenris’ glare and Varric’s clenched fists. He was too anaesthetized by it all to care.

 

Euphoric on the adrenaline rush of the chantry blast and being _alive_ , he’d let himself fantasise about running away with Hawke. Two apostate revolutionaries, bound to serving Justice. It had seemed romantic, almost. Something out of one of Varric’s less savoury novels, with inevitable long-earned fucking at the conclusion. Now, dislocated from the city’s burning streets and thrust instead into a numbing haze of ill-trodden paths and the shrieks of owls and the cloying grip of woodsmoke in his nose, he was falling away from euphoria so fast that his head spun. As the heavy comedown sank into him, crept into his skin and shuddered maddeningly down each individual vertebrae of his spine, he realised that in his elation he’d somehow managed to forget a handful of trifling minor matters. Such as the fact that Hawke came with a 4-person entourage. At least 3 of whom most likely wanted him dead. They had probably wanted him to stay away so they could discuss how best to dispose of their mage problem, he realised idly, pressing his shoulders further into the birdshit-scarred mass of a fallen tree behind him. Impending death by once-friends and a resting place covered in bird feces were, needless to say, some way from what Anders imagined a romantic escape should look like. He wondered how they would kill him. He wondered whether it was even possible. Sometimes, in the fade, he saw again and again and again the way Rolan’s face contorted as the templar’s sword sunk hilt-deep into his chest, felt the soul-grasping pull of the steel through flesh, saw the impasto swell of the blood, felt the sticky-hot weight of it on his skin like so much oil paint on a taught Minrathous canvas, heard those three words repeated until he choked on them, until they made him want to vomit in a blistering acrid rush of bile and sweat-drenched nightmare tremors. _What are you?_

 

He’d hoped that Hawke would be the one to end it. Refugee, mage, champion, friend, _death-bringer_ . Anders had sat on that filthy box, heart aching with exhaustion, and waited to feel the maker-given (Hawke-given?) relief of a dagger sliding between his ribs. The dagger never came, but the warm rush of Hawke’s arms around him, the steadying weight of his chest and the warm scent of leather and lyrium and the home he could never return to was such agony that he’d thought it might kill him all the same. Hawke always had been too kind-hearted. He’d been a fool to even let himself think Hawke would do the deed himself. No, Hawke was too _kind._ Anders had mistaken that kindness for something more, once. There had been years when he’d snarled and ached and driven himself half mad with desperation for it to be _more_ , for Hawke’s arms to be around him instead of bloody _Fenris_ of all people, for Hawke’s hands to caress and grab and choke and pin him down. That all felt so long ago, in this dark forest in the middle of maker-damned nowhere with the ashes of Kirkwall on the wind. Just another throw-away line in one of Varric’s stories.

 

“Mage.”

 

He opened his eyes, unable to comprehend how long he had been dozing for, and blinked slowly at the iron-and-lyrium outline of Fenris frowning down at him. Firelight flashed across the hard points of the steel gauntlets, caught in the mess of his hair. Trails of blood and ash smeared across his face like vitriolic kisses left by some war god nobody believed in anymore. Justice crackled hungrily under his skin at the sight of the lyrium tattoos and suddenly his tongue felt heavy and foreign in his mouth.

 

It had stung like a slap when he’d learned that Fenris shared Hawke’s bed. Fenris who had left, slunk away like a beaten cur. Anders and Hawke had fucked once after that, desperate and sickened and drenched with alcohol that tasted like misery, and Anders had thought it was what he wanted until he’d felt like nothing but a bad memory under Hawke’s tongue. Fenris had eventually returned to Hawke’s side and it made Anders’ heart clench and his teeth ache. Fenris who was not a mage, who hated mages, who could never understand what it was that Hawke fought for, what they had fought for _together_. Thinking about it made something primal and ugly and venomous stir in him even as he sat ready to die. Not that it mattered anymore. None of it mattered. He vaguely thought that at least Hawke would be safe, that Fenris’ sword arm was strong enough and his heart loyal enough to protect him from the storm that was bound to come.

 

“I thought it might be you.” Anders said.“Do it. I’m done with this. Just make it quick.” It seemed fitting, somehow, for Hawke to have decided on Fenris as his executioner. The elf stared at him blankly through the white shock of his hair. It felt like a challenge. The inertia might as well have been a punch to the chest. Anders stared back in disbelief, felt Justice about to prickle under his fingertips, ready to snarl and snap and draw blood. “Do it!” When Fenris still refused to do anything but stare, he felt the spirit snap inside him like a tongue of lightning and something roared white and acidic in his chest.

 

“I’m _tired_ , Fenris.” he snapped. “I know what I’ve done. I’ve got about as much interest in your opinion of me as I have in watching you dancing the maker-damned remigold naked right now so spare me the self-righteousness and just bloody kill me! It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? I’m an abomination to you. I’m a monster. I chose this. I took Justice and I made him into this,” he gesticulated wildly at himself, “and now Hawke, stupid bloody Hawke with all of his fucking _kindness_ won’t get his own hands dirty so he’s passed it to you. So do it. That’s what you’re made for, isn’t it? You’re a weapon so bloody well act like one and put your fist in my damn chest and _kill me_!”

 

“Anders, calm _down_!”

 

Hawke’s voice and the hand that suddenly grasped his shoulder startled him so badly that he almost let sparks fly from his fingers, cornered and desperate to burn and waste and destroy. But then he recognised that it was Hawke’s warmth at his side and Hawke’s fingers holding him back and the terrifying rage in his chest extinguished as easily as a candle flame, leaving nothing but shivers of fatigue and nausea and grim misery in its wake.

 

“This is beneath you.” Hawke muttered close to his ear, as Anders tried to force himself to breathe, fingers clenching and unclenching with the residue of Justice’s rage in his veins. When he looked down, he saw that the tips of his fingers glowed with the sickly silver-blue of the fade.

 

“Woah, easy sweet thing, nobody is killing anybody.” Isabela said softly, and as he came back to himself he realised that they were all there, all looking at him. Merrill hovered close by Isabela’s side, glancing back and forth between Anders’s still-glowing fingers and Fenris’ steady glare, plucking at her tunic with fidgeting fingers. Close by, Varric sighed and scrubbed his hand over his eyes with a grimace. Hawke was kneeling, hand squeezing Ander’s shoulder tightly, reassurance and warning folded together like layers of steel.

 

“But Fenris-”

 

“ _Fenris_ is trying to take over your watch.” Hawke’s words were low and deliberate, his hand still firm on Anders’ shoulder. “Which is a damn shame really, since you’re doing _such_ a stellar job of it. If you fancied inviting the templars over personally, I would have sent out invitations and saved you from having to shout. I’m sure they’re feeling in the mood for a party after that little show you put on for them earlier. The more the merrier.”  

 

“I-” Anders glanced from Hawke to Fenris, too exhausted and frayed to comprehend.

 

“Blondie, it’s been a long day. For all of us.” Anders could see Varric’s restraint in the tightness of his jaw - clenched so hard that his healer’s instincts told him there would be a tension ache gripping the dwarf’s temples the next morning. Varric’s voice, too, was heavy and strained, like a bow-string pulled beyond its limit. “A little self-control so we don’t all get stabbed in our sleep by Templars would be appreciated. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had quite enough of mages and templars for one day.” with a nod at Hawke, he walked to the side of their small campfire, settling on the ground to put his head in his hands and stab at the fire with a stick. Isabela shot Anders a smile that was mostly pity, and followed, Merrill tight on her heels, still peering back at them.

 

“Nobody is trying to kill you.” Hawke reiterated, and his grip finally relaxed. “Andraste’s arse, Anders, I thought I’d made that clear enough when I didn’t stick a knife in your back. What you did was-”

 

“What you did was reckless and irresponsible.” Fenris finally spoke, defiantly looking down at him, one gauntleted hand clenched into a fist, green eyes blazing. Anders wondered, not for the first time, how it would feel to have all of that steel and lyrium sinking into his chest. “You pointlessly put lives at risk, least of all ours. You dragged Hawke into your war, mage. You dragged us _all_ in.” Hawke’s hand tightened on Anders’ shoulder again, a warning. Fenris dropped his gaze, glancing back towards the fire. The flickering light played over his face, over expressions that it seemed physically uncomfortable for him to display. His mouth twitched minutely in discomfort, as though the words were too foreign and acidic for his tongue. “But Hawke trusts you. As a healer and as a… friend. I do not _agree_ with him, but I don’t need to.”

 

“Which is why you’ll be coming with us when we move on tomorrow morning.” Hawke said, and then, in a way that seemed frustratingly like an afterthought; “Alive.”

 

Anders allowed himself a moment to breathe, to calm the yowling discomfort of Justice behind his eyes and steady himself with reassurances. Hawke would not abandon him. Together, they would move steadily towards the destruction of the Circles. The world would finally see.  

 

And yet, something prickling and lyrium-blue in his skin told him that something was wrong.

 

For all of its grace and ostensible gentleness, spirit healing was a fiendishly difficult master to serve. The magic itself was merciless, peeling its user open like a skinned deer and ravenously gorging on the flesh and lyrium until all that was left was a membrane, stretched to bursting with the boiling pressure of the fade. Anders still remembered hours spent shivering and miserable and wretched from practicing as an apprentice, senses smeared with the taste of vomit and mucus and lyrium tang, Karl’s hand cool and soothing against his forehead. Too much lyrium, too little lyrium, too fast, too slow, too much, not enough. But healing was more than just the magic. All of the technical discipline in the world was useless without the ability to read the curl of a patient’s fingers, to transcribe the set of the jaw, interpret the lines below the eyes. Bodies had a whole language unto themselves. To be a spirit healer was to be a translator, and it was in translating Hawke’s too-quick glances to Fenris, the grim set of his jaw, that Anders _knew_.

  
“Hawke,” he managed, and it was almost a physical effort to keep the words from asphyxiating him. He saw the way Hawke gritted his teeth, the way Fenris’ shoulders tensed, and maker-damn it, he _knew_ and he was such a maker-damned _fool_ “where are you leading us?”

 

“North. We’re making for Tevinter. We’re aiming to hit some of the slave rings.”

 

It took long, aching moments for it to sink in, and when it finally did, he felt so sick that he almost laughed. Justice immediately threatened to surge forward, pressing at his confines in a rush of blazing fury and anguish.

 

“Tevinter?” he said, and of course, of course Hawke hadn’t meant to help him, of course Hawke’s word was only as good as his obligation to Fenris. “ _Tevinter_ ? Hawke, Kirkwall was the beginning, but mages all through the South of Thedas are suffering just because of the gifts they were born with. Every day they’re being killed and tortured and stripped of all the rights they should have just because they’re _mages_ . Like you. Like _us_. We can’t… Tevinter is… Hawke I can’t do this, I can’t go to Tevinter, you know I can’t, you know I’m needed here, this is bigger than either of us, Hawke-”

 

“This isn’t up for debate.” he said, pointedly refusing to meet Anders’ disbelieving stare.

 

“Be grateful that-” Fenris tried to begin, but Anders couldn’t even begin to care about what it was that he was supposed to be so damned grateful for.

 

“You said you _believed_ in me.”

 

“And I did, Anders. And I do. But Tevinter is safe for mages-”

 

“Which is exactly why it isn’t where we need to be! I can’t believe this, I thought that-”

 

“Andraste’s tits, Anders, it’s final. This isn’t going to be an argument. It’s for your own good-”

 

And then everything was static and white and so, so lyrium-blue and he could feel the words in his throat but they weren’t his own and his mind was blazing and burning so brightly with a thousand razor-blade shards of ash and smoke that he couldn’t think, couldn’t think aside from the memories that that phrase clawed into him. His mind was on fire with all of the times that something was for his own good, all of the spit-kissed whip cracks and fingers clawing and scrabbling at stone walls and the screaming vacuous loss of Karl and all of it for _his own good_. When he finally came back to himself, everything was too heavy. He blinked, head muzzy and noticed that Fenris was looking at his hand as though it were a piece of rotting meat. When he lifted it, he noticed that the fingers still glowed blue. When did he start losing control so easily?

 

“I’m sorry, I-”

 

“You’re a liability like this.” Fenris said cooly, and Anders was suddenly too tired to argue.

 

“Tevinter is safe for mages.” Hawke repeated, scrubbing his hand across his face, and for the first time Anders realised how _tired_ the other man looked. “And there might be knowledge there that you can use to sort out… that.” He gestured vaguely towards the cracks of blue as they crawled back into Anders’ skin.

 

“I won’t go.” He managed, and the pity in Hawke’s eyes made him want to scream.

 

“I don’t remember saying you had a choice.”


End file.
